


Better Than Sex

by insert_nom_de_plume



Series: Malfoy's Hair [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Chocolates, Harry's kinks, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Series, Short, Some Sex, blowjob, some makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insert_nom_de_plume/pseuds/insert_nom_de_plume
Summary: Draco already knows Harry's got a weird thing for his hair. He's been dabbling with makeup too, and some work at a chocolate store. Harry is undoubtedly intrigued.





	Better Than Sex

Harry Potter thinks he knows everything. It’s one of those things that truly gets to Draco. He wants to disprove it badly. The way he wanted to disprove Dumbledore’s insistence that Draco was kind at heart. The way he wanted to disprove his parents’ beliefs that he would make the perfect Slytherin heir to the Malfoy legacy.   
  
So, naturally, Draco takes on a day job, and he encounters Harry Potter no later than a week after his first day at work.   
  
“You work here.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You? But you’re a Malfoy.”  
  
“That’s true,” Draco says dryly, and busies himself behind the counter.   
  
“You don’t need to work.”  
  
Draco sighs and begins to regret this. “You don’t know anything about me, Potter.”  
  
“I thought I did,” and Harry thinks he hears a twinge of whining show through that statement. “I thought you made enough on those videos you put up online.”  
  
“Well, yes.”  
  
Harry Potter huffs. “All right. I’ll have some of those chocolate frogs. Teddy’s insistent.”  
  
“How many?”  
  
“I don’t know. Whatever.”  
  
Draco reaches for the chocolate frogs and drops at least five onto the counter. At least he can make some money out of this. He scans the frogs with his wand and swipes them into a paper bag. “Have a nice day.”  
  
“Yeah, you too, Malfoy,” Harry picks up his paper bag and pays for the right amount. “I’m sorry. I was, I was just taken aback. That’s all.”  
  
Draco nods.  
  
“Right,” Harry steps back and almost tramples over a gaping 12 year old kid. “See you ‘round.”  
   
“I doubt that.” Draco watches after him until the sound of the bell chimes at the door.  
  
“Was that Harry Potter?” 

_

  
It wasn’t like Draco had meant for Harry Potter to find out this part about him, it’s just that he’d wanted to test out this new mascara, and the only time he had to leave it on for so long was during work. And Harry Potter had chosen that time, on Draco’s shift, on that day, to wander in looking for every flavored beans and some more chocolate frogs.   
  
“Malfoy,” Potter drops some sweets onto the counter, looks up to greet Malfoy, and pauses. “You look different.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“In a good way, I guess. You don’t look to bad. Not usually,” he leans against the counter. “Are your eyelashes _pink_?”  
  
“They change color every hour or so.”  
  
“Is that a spell or something?”  
  
“I’m being paid to try it out,” Draco explains.  
  
“By Madame Dolce?”  
  
Madame Dolce owns the store, and she looks up from her catalogue at the sound of her name, and then disappears into the back room.   
  
“No, by the company who makes these products. It’s for my other job.”  
  
“Oh,” Potter flushes. “Well, it looks great. What color is it switching to next?”  
  
“This hour is pink, and we’ve already had orange, black, and blue. I think purple is next.”  
  
“I think Luna would love those. Could you owl me the info?”  
  
Draco blinks at him and packs the array of sweets into a paper bag. “If you’d like.”  
  
“Thanks. You know my address,” Potter smiles.  
  
“See you around.”  
  
“You will.”  
  
Draco sits against his stool, and as the clock turns half past six he watches his eyelashes change color. Purple.   
  
He wishes Harry Potter would stop passing by the store, but Madame Dolce says it’s good publicity. He hates to admit it, but sales have improved since the last time the famous wizard war hero paid a visit. He figures you win some and you lose some. He’d rather win a generous sum at the end of the month for his troubles.   
  
Another customer wanders into the store, and buys some chocolate frogs. “That was Harry Potter just a few minutes ago.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Your store must be doing well.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Cheers, mate.”  
  
Draco hates Harry Potter. At least he’s not around when his eyelashes turn a vibrant red, and that clashes horribly with eyes, he thinks.   
-  
  
It’s finally the end of the week. Draco reclines on his emerald leather couch and stares up at his apartment ceiling. He’s finally got a day off from that entirely unnecessary job, and a day off from hearing every customer walk in talk about something that Potter had done. In the past, or just a few days ago. There always seems to be something going on with him.   
  
Not today, Draco thinks, and lets his eyes fall shut. His muscles relax. He doesn’t have to think through his other work until this afternoon, and this morning he can afford the luxury of doing nothing at all.   
  
It’s not as if Draco’s forgotten that he’d fucked Harry Potter. His eyes flutter open at the memory. It’s hard to forget an event like that when he’s seen the man himself several times now, more so than he’d done before they’d fucked that one time. Perhaps this is what Pansy meant when she said working under Madame Dolce would be an easy segway back into society. There’s already been a few (small, but few) articles on him flying around.   
  
Pansy has cut offs of them. She says they’re important. Draco thinks it’s downright embarrassing.   
  
He wonders what Potter thinks of them, and that’s when he knows he really doesn’t deserve time off. Time off let’s him think, and thinking does not go hand in hand with sanity.   
  
He heaves himself off the couch, and he’s just about to set up his filming equipment when a snowy owl flutters through his open window.   
  
She drops a letter onto his desk, and hoots for some snacks.   
  
“Later,” Draco mumbles, when suddenly he recognizes the handwriting on the envelope. He tears it open to find a letter from Harry Potter addressed to him. It’s a reply to his earlier letter on the mascara that changed colors. A thank you note, really.   
  
“What the fuck.”  
  
He scribbles something back, and a furious exchange of letters take place. So much so that Potter’s owl pecks menacingly each time at Draco’s fingers, until only a bowl of worms seems to appease her.   
  
The last letter writes, “Fuck this, I’m flooing over.” It takes a heartbeat after Draco reads this before Harry Potter stumbles out of his fireplace. They face one another awkwardly.  
  
“I only wanted to say thanks. You didn’t have to go off tangent that way,” Potter blurts out.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I,” he clears his throat. “I’m not sure.”  
  
“I’m not sure either,” Draco says. “Perhaps you should leave.”  
  
“You said my green eyes were imploring.”  
  
“And then I cursed you for always interfering,” Draco could feel his cheeks heat up. “You only seem to get dumber, Potter.”  
  
“Well,” Potter looks around, and then down at his scruffy shoes. “Yes, I suppose.”  
  
“And your green eyes do make me sick.”  
  
“I’ve gathered.”  
  
“And you hair is a mess and your mouth tastes like liquor.”  
  
Potter’s head snaps up. “My mouth.”  
  
Draco turns away and gathers the scraps of paper delivered so diligently by Potter’s owl. He swipes them into a drawer, and then goes on to organize the rest of his work space. “You’re a drunk and an idiot.”  
  
“I was drunk. When we kissed. I don’t always taste like a drunk.”  
  
“I’m sure your many lovers can attest to that,” and really, Draco knows he sounds like a sob but he can’t help it. He’s seen the tabloids after all. Potter was a slut. The biggest of all.  
  
“My many lovers.”  
  
“Thousands of them.”  
  
“Thousands.”  
  
Draco looks up, and Harry Potter is smiling. “You don’t have to boast.”  
  
“I’m not boasting, I’m laughing because you’ve lost your mind.” He comes closer, places a hand over Draco’s as if that’s supposed to calm him when all it does is send waves of shock up his arms. “The papers spread lies, Draco.”  
  
“But you’ve had thousands of lovers.”  
  
“Not after I had you,” and the hand on his hand slides away, and Potter takes a step back. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I needed to see you, face to face.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Potter shrugs. “Maybe I miss you.”  
  
Draco wants to laugh, but the queasy feeling in his stomach only worsens, and he thinks he might sick up at any moment if Potter keeps standing there, staring at him as if Draco’s just transfigured into a unicorn. “Oh.”  
  
“I’ll go now. I’m sure you’re busy.”  
  
Draco straightens up. “Very busy.”  
  
Potter’s eyes twinkle as he backs away towards the fireplace, and he smiles. “I’ll see you soon, then.”   
  
He disappears in a rush of green flames, and Draco’s left standing there staring after him. “What the fuck.”  
  
-  
Slowly, but surely, a trickle of Potter’s friend crawl their way into Draco’s life. First it’s the wander-eyed Luna Lovegood. An easy trick that almost fools Draco. It makes sense, after all, for Luna to thank him personally for the gift.  
  
“What gift?” he asks.   
  
Draco can sense Madame Dolce’s inquisitive gaze upon him, but he can’t quite find the time to care.   
  
“Well, the mascara of course. It is quite exquisite, Draco. I have it on right now, can’t you see? It’s just turned orange.”  
  
Draco could see. “You didn’t have to come down here to thank me.”  
  
“Harry said the gift was from you. I thought it would be nice to see you again. You know what they say about jumping hippogriffs.”  
  
“No. I don’t.”  
  
“Well, we must have tea together someday. Then we can discuss all of it.”  
  
Draco watches her leave the store, and at once checks the papers. Perhaps a former Death Eater has escaped Azkaban, and Potter was failing to inconspicuously interrogate him. But there is no sign of anything bad happening. In fact, nothing threatening has happened at all since Potter joined the Aurors.   
  
And so it is strange, that no more than a week later, Hermione Granger steps into the store to ask if Madame Dolce sold any chocolates infused with sleep potion.  
  
“Sleep potion?” Draco repeats.  
  
“You’ve heard of it of course. It typically puts people to sleep after a correct dosage.”   
  
Draco stares at her, and then locates the box of chocolates if only to be rid of her.   
  
The next day, Potter’s famous ex-girl friend wanders in with her famous red hair and her famous all knowing smirk. “Malfoy.”  
  
“Weasley.”   
  
“Have you any love potion infused suckers? I hear they’re all the rage at the moment.”  
  
“These are highly dangerous and should not fall into the wrong hands,” he says as he slides them off a shelf. “Not for children.”  
  
“We’ve all grown up, haven’t we? Neville’s coming back from Paris this weekend. I thought I would treat us both. Thanks so much, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco watches her leave the store, grateful she’d shared enough of her escapades with Longbottom.  
  
He thinks that’s got to be the end of it. Draco contemplates sending a letter to Potter, calling him out on his obvious charade, but he fears another endless exchange of useless notes.   
  
A few days later, George Weasley wanders in. Madame Dolce is absolutely glowing with the recent attention, and she thinks Draco’s got everything to do with it.  
  
“Oh, if you’d told me sooner how well acquainted you are with Harry Potter and his crew. I would have hired you sooner.”  
  
“What can I do for you, Weasley?” he asks now, as the tall ginger peers into the shelves.   
  
“Just looking over competition. You know how it is with business.”  
  
Draco waits until George nears the counter before he says, “I don’t know what Potter hopes to achieve with sending you over here. Hasn’t he enough Gryffindor gut to see me himself?”  
  
George leans onto his elbows. “He’s teasing you, Malfoy. It’s what people do.”

  
“I don’t know what kind of people you are acquainted to, but that is certainly not what people do.”  
  
“Maybe you should talk to him,” George smiles. “Let him know how bothered you are by all this.”  
  
“If that’s what he wants, then he shouldn’t hold his breath.”  
  
George laughs. “Hermione says your sleep chocolates are good. Amber is having trouble sleeping with the baby and all of that. I’d like to treat her to some.”  
  
Draco can’t remember when the Weasleys started shooting out offsprings, or if he’s read of any of it in the papers. He finds the chocolates and passes them on, vowing not to let the stream of Hogwarts’ ghosts break him down.   
  
Although it comes close. Longbottom decides to reciprocate Ginny’s gesture, and Draco is put to the task of locating several boxes of sweets meant for arousal. Ron Weasley eyes him from head to toe before asking for Madam Dolce’s Ever Concentrated Chocolate Concentrated Coffees. Luna Lovegood returns to discuss more on the subject of Vampires, and buys blood chocolates for a bunch of her vampire friends who are meant to visit this week.   
  
And then Harry Potter himself walks into the store five minutes before closing time. Draco’s got chocolate on his lips that he can’t lick off on time, and a hundred new orders for tomorrow. It seems the papers have caught wind of the vigorous activity at the store, and a stream of customers bombarded the shop from opening time until only a minute before Potter’s arrival.   
  
“Potter.”  
  
“You’ve got something on your lips.”  
  
“It’s chocolate lipstick,” Draco think he’s surely not blushing. “Madame Dolce put me up to it.”  
  
“It quite suits your complexion.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Draco licks his lips and they taste like chocolate. He knows the lipstick’s not off, and Potter can’t seem to look away. “I don’t appreciate you stopping by. Or sending your spies my way. I’ve done nothing wrong, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Harry smiles.   
  
“Weasley says you’re teasing me,” Draco finds a rag behind the counter and busies himself with wiping down every surface there is. “What does he mean?”  
  
“Ron?”  
  
‘No, George.”  
  
“Oh,” Potter fixes his glasses. “He’s more perceptive than he seems. I only told them your chocolates are good.”  
  
“You told them I’ve been working here, and they’ve been curious to see what it looks like for a Malfoy to serve them.”  
  
Potter frowns. “No, that’s not it. You’ve misunderstood.”  
  
“What part?”  
  
“All of it,” Potter says. “They’re here because they know that I come down here often. They wanted to see what all the fuss is about.”  
  
“There is no fuss,” Draco throws down the rag. “I work here. It’s empty most of the time. Thanks to you and your friends, it’s been overcrowded. Madame Dolce is kissing my feet.”  
  
Potter’s eyebrows jump. “Is she?”  
  
“Not literally.” Draco rolls his eyes. “What have you told your friends? They act as though they know something I don’t.”  
  
“It’s nothing I’ve told them explicitly.”   
  
“Potter, I will hex you.”  
  
“Well,” he says. “They know.”  
  
“They know? Know what?”  
  
“Draco, they _know_.”  
  
Draco stares at him, clenching the rag. He thinks of Potter, the thing he’d said about the way his mouth tastes. He thinks of Potter’s mouth, and his eyes fall on the lips in question. “Oh.”  
  
“Should I have kept it a secret?”  
  
“It wasn’t only my secret,” Draco looks away. “It was shared.”  
  
“Yeah. Are you angry?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Will you look at me?” Potter’s hand encircles Draco’s wrist. “We’d all been drinking, and I’d just seen you that morning. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”  
  
“Potter.”  
  
“I know,” the pressure from his wrists eases away. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I let them amuse themselves. They think you’re as cold as you were. But not as rude. Luna says you’ve grown quite handsomely, as radishes do.”  
  
“She thinks I’m a radish?”  
  
Harry laughs. “Does it matter?”  
  
“Yes,” but Draco’s lips tug into a smile. “It would mean you fancy radishes.”  
  
“That’s all right.”  
  
“You fancy blokes.”  
  
“That’s all right, too. Many wizards do. You know, Dumbledore-“  
  
“I know,” Draco flushes. “My father loved to bring that up during dinners. He didn’t want me to go to Hogwarts.”  
  
“Where would you have gone instead?”  
  
Sometimes Draco thinks Potter struggles to imagine a world where Hogwarts doesn’t exist. He hates how much he finds that endearing.  
  
“France, probably.”   
  
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Potter says.  
  
“Did you have some of Ginny’s love suckers?”  
  
“No, I just think you’re fit and I can’t get you out of my head or the way you taste, or the way you felt that night. Do you remember?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“May I kiss you?”  
  
Potter leans in, and Draco doesn’t stop him. Potter’s tongue wets his lips and everything tastes like chocolate.   
  
They both step back, and Potter’s lips are smudged brown. “I think I got most of the lipstick off,” he says breathlessly.  
  
“I’ll be sure to tell Madame Dolce of the flaw in the formula.”

  
Potter lets out an amused breath sounding like a half-laugh. “You wouldn’t.”  
  
“No, I wouldn’t.” Draco tries not to smile.   
  
-  
“I like the way you do your eyes, and the way you shamelessly wear color on your skin like that. I don’t know many blokes who would do the same.”  
  
“Most have something to fear,” Draco says. “My father is dead.”  
  
It’s obvious Potter wants to smile.  
  
“You can laugh,” Draco says. “I never thought you’d share my sense of humor.”  
  
“I never thought I’d share anything with you,” Potter says. “But here we are.”  
  
They are in Potter’s bed. It’s magnificently large, and perfect for rolling about after a night spent sloshing down whiskey and tonics. Draco thinks he can taste the chocolate Harry had them share before they took their clothes off, and he leans in to kiss him again.  
  
“We’re both drunk.”  
  
“But I want you,” Draco says. “Make us sober.”  
  
Harry grabs the sobering potion from his bedside table and they each take a swig. “How romantic.”  
  
“Shut up,” Draco says, and his lips trace the shell of Harry’s ear. “Is it so bad that I want to feel you?”  
  
The sobering potion begins to kick in, and then it’s hard for Draco to speak without saying what he really wants to say.   
  
Harry kisses him again, teeth tugging at his lower lip and dragging it down. Harry sounds and acts the same sober as he does when he’s drunk. His fingers brush through Draco’s hair and tug at them as they kiss, their tongues sliding out hot and slow. Draco’s fingers find their clothes. Harry’d already chucked off his own jacket by the door when they’d started kissing earlier. But he’d kept his jeans and shirt on.   
  
Draco carefully undoes the buttons. He thinks of the way Harry carefully dresses before they leave the apartment. How he selects each item with care, how he handles the buttons and the collars. Yet he still seems to appear disheveled. But his hands touch everything with care, and Draco doesn’t want to accidentally rip out a button or two.   
  
“Faster,” Harry moans softly.   
  
“Wait,” Draco says. He slides the shirt away and presses kissed onto his torso. It’s littered with bruises from last week’s auror mission. Draco wants to kiss them away, sliding his tongue over where it hurts. He feels the way Harry pushes his hips up towards him, the way his fingers clench around his hair. Harry loves his long hair. He pulls out the tie around his ponytail and combs his fingers through his hair.   
  
Draco slides down to undo Harry’s jeans. He tugs them down to his knees and palms his erection. Harry’d gone without pants again, the way he knows it drives Draco mad to see the definition of Harry’s cock on the crotch of his jeans the way it only looks when he’s got nothing underneath. He does this knowing Draco finds it irresistible the whole night out, the way it makes him hungry for it later when they get back to the apartment.   
  
Draco doesn’t wait any longer to take Harry’s cock into his mouth, to wet it with his saliva until he’s making obscene sounds with his mouth. Draco knows how to wrap his lips around Harry so it’s tight enough, how to circle his tongue around his shaft until Harry’s digging his nails into Draco skin, dragging him up with hair to kiss him with his dirty mouth and then to push him down so Draco can bob his head up and down to the rhythm of Harry’s snapping hips, to the sound of his pants, to the creaking of the headboard until he comes, spilling into Draco’s mouth and then some down his chin. It’s messy, and Draco licks it clean.   
  
“More?”   
  
“Yes,” because it’s never enough for Harry. He wants Draco on his knees, or his wrists tied onto the bedposts.   
  
Draco licks his lips still tasting of Harry’s come. He straddles his hips, and mutters a spell. “Like this?”  
  
Harry grips Draco’s thighs and positions them right, and then slowly eases his cock into him, using his hands to spread his cheeks. He pushes into Draco, looking up at him the way he likes to. His cock is hard, and Draco can feel every part of it, how thick it is, how round the tip is, how wet they’ve both become. His hands grip Harry’s shoulders as they move in sync, as Harry snaps his hips and Draco comes down at the same time, as they cry out over and over again. Draco leans in and captures Harry’s lips, moans into his open mouth as he feels Harry inside him, burning him up from the inside. He can feel Harry’s flickering magic, can feel the way the wet lube he’d summoned wasn’t quite enough, and how he feels raw, and used, and still hungry for more. He cries out one more time, a candle comes to light, and Harry spills into him and then cleans them both with a spell.   
  
Draco curls into him, his chest still heaving, and his skin incredibly sensitive to Harry’s touch. “More?”  
  
Harry laughs breathlessly, and pulls him close. “In the morning, perhaps.”


End file.
